The Ice Cream Man.

I've decided that when I grow up and have a big pretty house of my own, I want an adult-sized swingset in the backyard. Somewhere I can think and enjoy the trees. Somewhere I can go barefoot, with maybe gravel underneath so I could walk around barefoot.

Until I moved to MA, I wasn't allowed to leave my driveway, really. Except once a day. I don't know how I got the money, but every day, I would listen and wait for the ice cream man. It was always 80 degrees, so it was always ice cream weather. And I would always get two scoops of Oreo ice cream on a double cone, not that prepackaged crap with frozen bubble gum eyes.

The ice cream man was an asshole. He would often pass my driveway after seeing me standing there, not wanting to stop for just one kid. So I would book it down the street after him barefoot, the pavement well hotter than 110°, rocks, broken glass, it didn't matter as long as I flagged that fucker down and got my ice cream. Because of that, I had the thickest callouses on my feet as a child.

So I wouldn't mind walking over the gravel in my swingset.

Better than getting sand stuck in between your toes.



(That's a picture I found of the house across from mine in CA. That was where the foster family lived who robbed us. They were 13751 Sproule Ave, and my family was 13748.)